


Tomorrow

by cloudylane



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudylane/pseuds/cloudylane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Álvaro prepares himself for meeting Isco before the Champions-league match in Turin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I meant to post this before the match on Wednesday but it kind of fits  
> my mood today, though after this match I thinks some angsty-fluffy Jamisco is in order  
> too, or maybe Crismes?  
> Let me know your thoughts if you like. 
> 
> Have fun reading!
> 
> Yes I know I really need to Update David& James and finish 'Fractions' I'll get to both of those  
> soon, I promise =)

He should sleep. Tomorrow was important, he had insisted every since the draw was made that it didn’t matter to him, that he had nothing to prove, he had lied, mostly to himself. He wanted to not care, to face Real, like they were just another opponent but he couldn’t. Even if the press hadn’t bothered him with stupid questions or if Dani hadn’t send him countless teasing texts. So much of his life had been spend dreaming in white, he still did. As grateful as he was for every chance he got to play, for every welcoming gesture of his teammates, Real was home, everything he strived for, so much he loved was still in Madrid. Time to let go had long since passed, it was just so much easier to pretend…to act like he was still loved back.It was silly, really. He was no better that those teenage girls fantasizing about some movie star, deluded. As if he would miraculously change his mind, if he just hoped hard enough, like he could change the future if his grip on their past was strong enough. All those fucking memories, how the hell was he supposed to escape him? Even hundreds of kilometers away in a different country everything reminded him of Isco and when he discovered something new, his fingers were always one step away from dialing his number. He never does he’s not that hopeless, just delusional. Unable to stop dreaming, reminiscing of things he couldn’t have anymore. Perhaps Isco had been right when he had called him an idiot, he was aware of facts but unable to accept them. It just hurt.

After everything, all he had gotten was a short, remarkably simple conversation in some hotel-room. He had hardly said anything only yelled on the inside. He was supposed to be understanding, professional about things. Wasn’t that what Isco had said? „We’re still friends and teammates, we need to act normal“ What if normal for him was seeking Isco out in a crowd for a hug? Pulling him as close as possible, even pressing a gentle kiss against his ear, if he felt particularly daring. Calling him just to hear his voice, just to reassure himself that he was around, loved him no matter what. What if being in love and being loved by Isco was his normal? For years they had shared so much, dreams, struggles, glory and failure…Francisco was the person he most wanted to celebrate with and the one he curled up against when things went astray. He remembered the first time they’d played for la Rioja together, still kids, overeager and nervous. But as terrifying as the thought of screwing up for his country had been, it was okay because Isco was there, plastered on grin matching his own, holding his hand for just a second, enough to save his legs from turning into jelly at the sound of the anthem. He had pestered Isco for months to join him in Madrid, actually he had given up hope when he turned up unannounced, in full on Real white, looking like  a slightly deranged fan jumping up and down on his doorstep. He had spend about five seconds staring at him and then pulled him straight into the bedroom, so he could fuck the living daylights out of him. Afterwards, not caring that he was sweaty and gross he had snuggled up to Isco, hiding his face in the crook of his neck, not even with the champions-league trophy in his hands, had he felt so warm and elated, that day they could’ve conquered the world. Even when he had struggled on the pitch, when the constant pressure seemed to overwhelm him, the certainty that Isco still believed made it okay. He had been a fool all a long? Loving too much, placing too much hope in one person?

But how could he not? He remembered how Isco would turn up at his Apartment late at night after trips to Malaga, climb into bed and just flash him a tired but so so loving smile before drifting off. The way he’d kiss him when their families were around, chaste, all gentleness and care. His stupidly fond expression whenever his sharp tongue ran away with him again, he had never been comfortable with the media, he felt insecure in front of cameras unfortunately that only increased his tendency to speak without thinking first. Sometimes after he’d scored Isco seemed so proud like he valued his success as much as his own. He still felt that way, even if he was confined to cheering on a tiny figure on a TV screen. Thats about all he had left, watching Isco play, daydreaming about a future they no longer had. He wouldn’t steal time, making up some flimsy excuse so he could see him in Madrid, they wouldn’t spend their summer together, alternating between their families and some Caribbean island where no one knew them…and tomorrow he wouldn’t drag Isco into some supply-room for a good-luck kiss, he wouldn’t try to convince him to stay for the night or smile at him across the tunnel just to let him know that this match wouldn’t change anything between them, he was no longer allowed to do any of those things. Neither would Isco hug him, press a little kiss against his ear, reassure him that he had nothing to prove or bring him a bag full of his favorite spanish treats, texts him from the plane that he missed him already…Because he no longer cared enough. It was over. He knew. He had known for moths now but it still hurt. He just had to give his stupid heart a kick and soldier on, because tomorrow, everyone including Isco, expected them to be just friends


End file.
